


Sweeter Than Scones

by orderlychaos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baking, Feelstide 2013, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, SHIELD has a Mysterious Baking Fairy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SHIELD, like any other organisation on the planet, had its fair share of gossip.  Stories of missions and other disasters grew and became urban legends, passed down from one group of agents to the next.  Sometimes, those tales gained a few embellishments along the way and sometimes, they faded away when the truth of things came out.  However, there was one legend at SHIELD that failed to die.</p><p>SHIELD had a Mysterious Baking Fairy.</p><p> </p><p>(Or, the Art of Wooing Archers with Chocolate Chip Scones.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeter Than Scones

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feelstide prompt #98:  
> Phil enjoys baking, not that he gets the chance to do it often. But over Christmas, he has a shocking several days off. So, he decides to indulge. AKA "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," etc.  
> can be get-together or established. i just want to see Clint swoon over delicious treats and Coulson in an apron/covered in flour. bonus points for sneaking in the events from "A Funny Thing Happened [...]".
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to feelschat for the help, especially ladydeathfaerie for her help with New York City weather (because I’m Australian and snow is weird -- and even though there turned out to be far less snow in this fic that I originally planned). And Yakkorat for helping with the spelling and being awesome. <3

SHIELD, like any other organisation on the planet, had its fair share of gossip.  Stories of missions and other disasters grew and became urban legends, passed down from one group of agents to the next.  Sometimes, those tales gained a few embellishments along the way and sometimes, they faded away when the truth of things came out.  There was one legend at SHIELD, however, that refused to die.  Senior agents told it quietly to junior agents, smiles on their faces, and the junior agents repeated it among themselves in ever growing whispers -- particularly around Christmas when everyone was missing their families and the illusion of a normal life.  No one knew where the legend started or how it grew so big, but there was one undeniable, inescapable fact -- everything people were saying was _true_.

SHIELD had a Mysterious Baking Fairy.

For almost ten years, the MBF had been leaving the most amazing, mouth-wateringly delicious baked goods around various SHIELD offices -- and no one was any closer to finding out who it was.  There didn’t seem to be any pattern to what the MBF baked, other than that the treats were the most heavenly goodies ever tasted and whoever found them would be able to extract a large number of favours from any SHIELD agent they wanted.  Nor did there seem to be any pattern to when the baked goods appeared.  Sometimes the plates of brownies and cookies and muffins appeared twice in one week and sometimes it would be months before any kind of baked treat was found.  It didn’t take long for the entirety of SHIELD to get addicted to the delicious pastries and start keeping sharp eyes open for any clue to who the MBF was.

The frustrating part, however, was that the MBF was just too good.  No one could figure out who they were.  There was always wild speculation and a persistent rumour claimed the MBF was Fury himself, but whoever the fairy was, they managed to keep their alter ego secret.  So far, there were only three conclusive things people knew about the MBF.  Firstly, the betting pool Jasper Sitwell was running on the fairy’s identity was now into the thousands of dollars.  Secondly, Clint Barton had declared that as soon as he figured out who the MBF was, he was proposing marriage to them on the spot.  And thirdly, of course, was that there was absolutely no way at all that Phil Coulson was the MBF.

Which, if anyone had been paying attention, should have told them something.

~*~

Phil Coulson hummed happily to himself as he pulled his latest batch of snickerdoodles out of the oven.  His whole apartment was filled with the warm, sweet scent of baking and for the first time in about a month, the tension in Phil’s shoulders had eased enough that he felt like he could actually relax.  Phil loved being back out in the field with his new team, but spending so much time on the Bus surrounded by personalities that were still rough around the edges and just getting to know each other was a little stressful, even for Phil.  Sometimes, Phil had caught himself missing quiet moments in safehouses around the world, Natasha cleaning her guns on the kitchen table and Clint curled up on the window sill, watching the world outside with his sharp gaze.  Phil’s new team was amazing, but even so, they couldn’t quite fill the persistent ache deep in his chest.

Phil sighed, letting the soft jazz on the stereo wash over him.  Outside his apartment, snow was falling steadily across the city, and Phil was grateful he was inside.  In a rare turn of events, he’d managed to arrange a few days off -- barring any major crisis -- during the lead up to Christmas, so he’d told Melinda to turn the Bus towards New York and given his team two weeks off to head home to their families after checking in with headquarters.  Phil had weathered Skye’s curious looks and Simmons’ well-meaning questions about how he was spending his holiday, not having the heart to tell her he’d probably be spending it alone.  Phil didn’t have many relatives left, not since his mother had died and none that he really wanted to visit.  His family was SHIELD.  Usually Phil would spend the time with his old friends, but Nick still wasn’t sure if he could get away and everyone else were on missions, because unfortunately, the global forces of evil didn’t just disappear for the holidays.

So Phil was baking.  He’d drop by SHIELD in the morning to leave the results for the agents who’d been given the holiday shift.  If he was lucky, when he swung by Nick’s office with his usual gift of dark fudge brownies, Nick would be able to disappear for a long lunch.  

Humming along with Ella Fitzgerald, Phil pulled out another mixing bowl, debating what he should bake next.  He was tempted to make a batch of his mother’s lucky scones to leave by the range, because the scones were Clint’s favourites -- not that Clint knew they were Mama Coulson’s special recipe.  As far as Phil knew, no one aside from Nick knew about his baking habit.  Reaching for the cream, Phil hesitated a moment, suddenly not sure Clint would be hanging around SHIELD for the holidays.  Clint had been avoiding Phil recently -- not that it was hard with Phil on the Bus -- and Phil knew that was his fault.  He was trying to give Clint the space he so obviously wanted so he could deal with the fallout from the Battle of New York, even though Phil desperately missed Clint’s steady friendship.  As a result, there was a large chance that the archer would be somewhere else this Christmas, spending time with Natasha -- and maybe even one of the other Avengers if they were around.  Phil refused to be jealous of that, but he knew himself well enough to know he was.  It didn’t matter anyway.  He’d missed whatever chance he’d had with Clint.

Shaking off his melancholy thoughts, Phil frowned at himself.  He was content with his life and brooding over what had been and what could have been was pointless, no matter how sentimental this time of year made him.  Although, he’d still make the scones.  Natasha would probably find them if Clint didn’t and pass them on.

Just as Phil was frowning at his mostly empty bag of flour, he heard a sharp knock at the door.  Blinking for a moment, Phil tried to work out who’d be visiting him this late at night on a snowy evening as he wiped his hands on his apron.  The apron was (mostly) white, with a large black tie printed down the front and had been a gift from Nick years ago.  Heading to the door, Phil reached towards the gun he’d hidden behind the coat rack as he checked who it was, blinking again when he saw Melinda May, Natasha Romanoff, Nick Fury and James Rhodes standing outside his apartment.

“Hey,” Phil greeted with a smile as he opened the door.  “What are you all doing here?”

Melinda sent him a pointed look as he stepped back to let them in.  “No one’s seen you in three days,” she said, handing Phil a bottle of very nice red wine.

“I was catching up on sleep,” Phil told her dryly.  “And laundry.”

“We were worried you might be lonely,” Natasha said, reaching up to brush some flour off Phil’s cheek, before pressing a kiss to it and slipping past.

Phil turned to Nick, eyebrows raised.  Behind Nick, Rhodey waved.  “Don’t give me that look,” Nick grumbled.  “I just brought the food.”

“Thanks,” Phil replied, smiling ruefully as his stomach gave a traitorous rumble.

He closed the door as Nick and Rhodey followed Melinda and Natasha into the lounge area.  “Oh, and I got you more flour and things,” Nick added, turning around and holding a bag of groceries out to Phil.

“I do need more flour…” Phil began, reaching for them -- only to have Nick pull the bag back again.

“You can only have them if you promise to only use the ingredients for baking and not for knocking hapless gas station robbers unconscious,” Nick said, mischief dancing across his expression.

Phil rolled his eyes.  “Ha ha,” he shot back flatly.  “You’re hilarious.  Just like the last twelve times you’ve said that.”

Taking the groceries, Phil headed back into the kitchen, aware that his friends were all following on his heels.  With a pointed look at the racks of cooling brownies and cookies, Natasha gracefully slipping onto one of the stools beside the bench in front of Phil.  “So,” she said, arching an eyebrow.  “You bake.”

Phil nodded, shrugging slightly.  “I do,” he agreed, well aware his secret was out and not fighting it.  “It helps me relax.”

Behind him, Rhodey went looking for the wine glasses while Nick started unpacking dinner, both of them clearly unconcerned that Phil had just been outed as SHIELD’s baking fairy.  Melinda hummed beside him and when Phil turned to face her, he caught her smiling contentedly around a warm snickerdoodle.  “You,” she said, pointing at Phil with half a cookie as she chewed, “are doing this on the Bus.  All the time.”

Phil bit back a smile and nodded as solemnly as he could.  He’d almost forgotten the extent of Melinda’s weakness for snickerdoodles.

“Do I need to be worried about more guests descending on me?” Phil asked with amusement.

Melinda rolled her eyes and reached for another cookie.  “If you’re referring to the kids, then no.  Fitz and Simmons have gone home to their families and Skye has dragged Ward off somewhere because he still hasn’t learned how to say no when she turns puppy eyes on him.”

Shaking his head, Phil chuckled softly.  When he reached for the flour again, Nick actually smacked his hand, before holding out a glass of wine.  “Dinner first,” he said, waving at the deliciously fragrant Thai food he was putting on plates.  “You can finish making your lucky scones later.”

Natasha eyed the mixing bowl critically.  “Are you making chocolate chip scones?” she asked.

“I am,” Phil replied with a smile.  “You can steal some when they’re done if you like.”

Arching an eyebrow, Natasha watched him in silence for another minute.  “They’re Clint’s favourites,” she said.

“Yes,” Phil said quietly, fighting the blush heating his cheeks.  “I know.”

Nick snorted.  “Why do you think he makes them all the damned time?” he said.

Frowning, Phil narrowed his eyes at Nick and ignored his old friend’s unrepentant grin.  He tried to will his expression into reminding Nick of how much pain Phil could cause him if Nick decided to accidentally blab about Phil’s ridiculous crush.  Phil ignored the speculative look that Melinda and Phil shared and made a show of grabbing his share of the food and retreating to the lounge room.

“Really?” Rhodey asked, following him.  “You and Barton?”

Phil sighed.  “There _is_ no me and Barton,” he replied.  “We’re just friends.”

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about it!” Melinda called out from the kitchen.

Laughing softly, Natasha settled onto the couch beside Phil.  “I’ve already bought you something for a Christmas gift, but right now I’m thinking of something much better,” she said with a sly smile.

It was Phil’s turn to arch an eyebrow at her.  “If it’s a novelty apron, I can assure you that Nick’s already bought me all of the ones on the market,” he said dryly.

“No,” Natasha said, delicately using her chopsticks to grab a mouthful of coconut rice.  “It’s not an apron.”

Melinda glanced up as she entered, before squashing in beside Natasha.  “I like the way your mind works,” she told the redhead.

“I have a plan,” Natasha agreed cryptically.

Eyeing Natasha carefully, Phil sighed.  “Can we just eat dinner?” he asked plaintively.

“Sure,” Nick grinned.  “And while we’re eating, I can tell you all about the plans I came up with for Rhodey’s and my wedding.”

Rhodey coughed up a mouthful of rice and turned wide eyes on Nick.  Hiding a smile, Phil arched an eyebrow at Nick.  “I see you still haven’t asked him yet,” he said.

Nick shrugged.  “I’ll get around to it,” he replied.

As they all dug into the food, the conversation shifted to other topics.  Nick and Natasha updated them on everything Phil and Melinda had missed out on while they were on the Bus, stories and gossip punctuated with waves of chopsticks and low, warm laughter.  Finally, when most of the food was gone, Nick settled deeper into the cushions of his armchair and let out a satisfied groan.  “That was good,” he said with a sigh.  “And I swear if some junior agent interrupts me with a crisis before I have finished revelling in this food coma, I will do something permanent and messy with a pair of chopsticks.”

Phil couldn’t hold back his laugh.  “I guess you don’t want a brownie, then?” he teased.

Nick glared at him.  “I didn’t say that,” he replied.

Melinda hummed again.  “I think those snickerdoodles are the best I’ve ever tasted,” she said.  She picked up her glass of wine, before eyeing Phil over the rim.  “Now, can we have a conversation about Phil being SHIELD’s mysterious baking fairy and evilly hiding his wondrous talents from his friends?”

Chuckling, Nick waved his own wine glass through the air.  “I can’t believe none of you figured it out,” he said.  “I always thought the fact that everyone insisted it _wasn’t_ Phil -- despite his ability to wield a bag of flour as a weapon -- was a dead giveaway.”

Natasha shrugged.  “I think the more important question is whether our resident fairy knows about his number one fan,” she said, a smirk curving across her face.

Melinda grinned.  “Or the way a certain archer uses his morning patrol through the vents to make sure no plates have been left out overnight so that he can grab all the best goodies.”

Phil blinked.  “Clint likes my baking?” he echoed, staring at Melinda.  Phil had always known Clint loved food -- he’d visited enough diners with the archer to know _that_ \-- but he hadn’t realised that Clint actually _sought out_ the baked goods he left around the SHIELD offices whenever he could.

Natasha sent him a pointed look.  “Clint has wanted to have your babies ever since you made gingerbread men and iced them like SHIELD agents,” she said.

Trying not to choke on the air in his lungs, Phil stared at her, wide-eyed.  Behind her, Nick -- the _bastard_ \-- was laughing his ass off.  Rhodey wasn’t that much better, but at least he was trying to hide his grin behind his wine glass.  “Actually,” Natasha said, cocking her head with a sly smile, “he’s wanted to have your babies for longer than that, but he still doesn’t know you’re actually the SHIELD baking fairy.  So I suppose that means he wants to have your babies twice.”

Phil glared at her.  “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Natasha countered with another sly smile.

~*~

Clint Barton stared down at the text on his phone and tried -- and mostly failed -- not to freak out.  Natasha’s summons were always mysterious, but Clint couldn’t help the bad feeling twisting his stomach as he stood outside Phil Coulson’s apartment.  He was a little surprised that Natasha had called him here, because it wasn’t exactly a secret that Clint had kind of been avoiding Phil for a while now.  Natasha knew _why_ , too.  It wasn’t Phil’s almost-death that was the reason Clint was being so cagey -- it was more that Clint needed time to untangle all the feelings knotted in his chest and try to figure out how to put them into words.  Clint was done with hiding his feelings and settling for being content instead of happy.  If there was even a small chance he could have what he wanted, he was going to take it.

_There’s something you need to see.  PC’s apartment.  Get here now._

Straightening his shoulders, Clint shoved his phone back in his pocket and knocked on Phil’s door before his pride could convince him to beat a cowardly retreat.  When a laughing Phil opened the door, Clint wasn’t sure which one of them was more surprised.  Phil looked _good_ \-- his blue eyes were bright with amusement and his cheeks were slightly flushed.  Blinking, Clint couldn’t stop the way his gaze dipped for a moment, taking in the worn jeans that hugged Phil’s legs and the soft, grey sweater that pulled tight across Phil’s shoulders and had been pushed up to Phil’s elbows, revealing Phil’s strong forearms.

“Clint,” Phil greeted warmly.

“You have flour on your neck,” Clint blurted, frowning when he caught the white smudge.

A little ruefully, Phil reached up to brush it away.  When Clint just continued to stare silently, still trying to wrap his mind around his former handler looking so gorgeous and _alive_ , Phil arched an eyebrow, crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, clearly settling in to wait Clint out.  “ _Why_ do you have flour on your neck?” Clint finally asked.

Shaking his head with a smile, Phil moved backwards.  “Come in and I’ll show you,” he replied.

Stepping into the apartment, Clint couldn’t stop the way his fingers brushed Phil’s bare forearm as he passed, impulse driving him before he could stop it.  A hum of awareness rushed over Clint’s skin, his fingertips practically tingling.  Phil arched an eyebrow at the touch, but didn’t move away.  “Uh…” Clint stuttered, feeling his cheeks heat with a blush.  “You had more flour on your arm.”

“Is that so?” Phil said quietly, standing close enough that Clint could feel the warm brush of Phil’s breath against his cheek.

If Clint wanted to, he could just lean forward a little and he’d be pressed up against Phil’s chest.  Clint couldn’t stop the way his heart skipped a beat and desire shivered down his spine at the thought.  Clearing his throat, he stepped into the lounge room and away from Phil before he did something else impulsive.  He took in the four people watching him with varying degrees of curiosity and amusement from the couch and chairs, a mostly-finished wine bottle and five glasses still sitting on the coffee table with a quick sweep of his eyes and winced inwardly.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Clint said softly, trying to avoid both Natasha’s knowing gaze and the disturbing smile on Fury’s face.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Melinda said with a smirk.  “We’re just here for the baked goods.”

“Thanks,” Phil said dryly, coming up behind Clint.  “It’s always nice to know I’m wanted.”

Melinda narrowed her eyes.  “You were holding out on me, Phil,” she said.  “Don’t think I’m going to forgive you for that.”

Opening and shutting his mouth a few times, completely lost about what was going on, Clint turned his helpless gaze on Natasha.  “Snickerdoodles,” she told him.

Clint began to wonder if they were all having the same conversation.

Phil sighed.  “I bake,” he explained, looking straight at Clint with a slightly apologetic expression.  “When I’m stressed.  And because I can’t eat everything I make… I leave plates of cookies and things around SHIELD for whoever finds them.”

Clint felt his jaw drop.  “ _You’re_ the MBF!” he accused.

Wincing slightly, Phil nodded.  “I am,” he agreed.

“You… the _scones_ … oh my God!” Clint said, stumbling over his words.

Clint struggled to stop his brain melting out of his ears.  It felt as if the world had tilted under his feet and he was struggling to catch up.  Phil was the _SHIELD baking fairy_.  Clint couldn’t entirely process it, but he did know that he very, _very_ desperately wanted to beg Phil to make those amazingly fluffy chocolate chip scones.  Possibly every day for the rest of Clint’s natural life -- but only for Clint.

Gracefully, Natasha rose to her feet.  “I don’t think that’s the question you’re meant to be asking, Clint,” she said teasingly.

Immediately wary of the amusement in her eyes, Clint frowned at her for a second.  Then his eyes flew wide as he realised what she was talking about.  “Uh… Nat,” he started to say.

“Oh, no,” Nick Fury said with a grin, clearly enjoying this moment far too much.  “You swore, Barton, in front of witnesses.  Don’t think you’re getting out of this.”

Rhodey looked intrigued.  “What did he swear?”

“That when he found out who the baking fairy was, he’d propose on the spot,” Melinda answered because she was _evil_.

Four sets of amused eyes turned back towards Clint.  Clint fought the blush he was _sure_ was turning his face bright red and noticed the way Phil was refusing to look at him, Phil’s cheeks faintly pink too.  Rolling his eyes, Clint attempted to fix his usual smirk on his face and desperately pretend that he hadn’t ever entertained the thought that maybe, one day, he might actually like to be married to Phil.

For real.

“Phil,” he said, ignoring the rest of the SHIELD agents in the lounge like a _pro_.  He reached out to poke Phil’s shoulder when Phil wouldn’t look at him, only Phil chose exactly that moment to turn towards him and Clint’s fingers brushed Phil’s cheek, the soft rasp of stubble prickling against his skin.  A jolt of electricity rushed up his arm and Clint froze, the smirk falling off his face.  Phil blinked at him, the blush on his cheeks darkening as his eyes skittered away from Clint’s again and all of a sudden Clint felt the breath rush out of his lungs.

Oh, _shit_.

Some Hawkeye he was.

How the hell hadn’t he seen that before?

“ _Phil_ ,” Clint tried again, his voice coming out low and rough as he reached out to curl his fingers around Phil’s chin and for a moment, images flooded Clint’s mind of darkened bedrooms, tangled sheets and feeling Phil’s solid strength pressing him into the mattress.

Phil’s blue eyes flicked up to his, uncertain in a way Clint had never seen before.  Clint swayed towards Phil or maybe Phil leaned towards him, but suddenly they were standing so close together that Clint could feel the warmth radiating off Phil across his chest.  The world fell away around them and Clint’s focus narrowed to the feel of his hand still wrapped around Phil’s forearm and those warm, uncertain blue eyes watching him with such hope.  Clint felt his mouth go dry as his pulse jumped.  He sucked in a shuddering breath.

“Whoa,” Rhodey said, breaking the moment with a crash.  “Is it just me or did the temperature in this room just go up by about a million degrees?”

He yelped a second later as both Melinda and Natasha reached out to smack him.  Unfortunately, the damage was done and Clint let out a slow breath as Phil went back to avoiding his gaze.  Natasha rolled her eyes.  “Well, as much as this was fun, I think it’s time we all left,” she said, emphasising the last few words as she glared pointedly at Rhodey.

Rhodey glanced up at her, more than slightly disgruntled.  “It’s snowing outside,” he said.  “And don’t get mad at me.  If you want me to help with your evil plans, you actually have to tell me what they are first!”

Natasha narrowed her eyes at Rhodey, but before she could say anything else -- or potentially pull out a weapon -- Nick rose to his feet.  “Right, we’re leaving,” he declared firmly.  “Barton, you’re staying.  I think you and Phil have things you need to… discuss, don’t you?”  He shot Clint a pointed look.  “Also, you’re invited to Christmas dinner.  Maria’s experimenting with turkey and Jasper’s… well, Jasper will probably be setting the kitchen on fire again.  It’ll be fun.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Melinda said, following Fury and Rhodey as they headed towards the door.

Clint was pretty sure he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.  If he didn’t know that Fury, Melinda, Rhodey and Natasha were family, he probably would have guessed by the way he both loved and hated them all.

“I… uh.  I’m going to go and check on the scones,” Phil said, before fleeing to the kitchen.

Sighing, Clint turned to Natasha, who was still standing silently in the middle of the lounge.  She shrugged at Clint’s beseeching look.  “I’d suggest tearing each others clothes off,” she said, before her eyes drifted over to the kitchen, “but you should probably talk first.”

“Thanks,” Clint said dryly.  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Natasha huffed.  “I suppose that’s why you’ve been avoiding Phil for so long?” she replied pointedly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint muttered, scowling.  “I’ll fix it.”

“Good,” Natasha told him, before walking over to kiss him on the cheek.  “Have fun.”

Almost as soon as the door closed behind her, the butterflies started up a carnival in Clint’s stomach as he was hit by the realisation that he was suddenly all alone with Phil.  It was a moment he’d both been longing for and dreading for weeks, because he couldn’t hide behind the fact that Phil was his handler anymore.  He was finally going to have to say something about how he felt.  Although, considering the way Phil was blushing and avoiding his eyes before, Clint’s feelings might not be as unrequited as he’d feared.  It was a heady thought.

Quietly, Clint walked over to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, unconsciously mirroring Phil’s posture when he’d greeted Clint at the door.  Watching Phil pull a tray delicious, golden scones out of the oven, Clint’s heart gave a single, loud thump against his ribs.  It was kind of ridiculous how gone Clint was on the man.  It wasn’t just that Phil was smart and competent and fucking sexy in his suits, although all of that definitely helped.  Clint loved Phil as much for his steady calm when a mission was going to shit as he did for moments like this one, where Phil was dressed in faded, comfortable clothes and covered in a faint dusting of flour.  The warm domesticity of the scene made Clint’s heart thump again and he wanted nothing more than to walk over, wrap his arms around Phil and ask to stay forever.  

“So are we going to talk about this?” Clint asked quietly.

Phil looked up from where he was carefully adding the scones to a cooling rack.  “It’s okay, Clint,” he said.  “I’m not going to hold you to a promise made as a joke, no matter what the Director might have said.  We’re fine.”

Clint paused for a moment, just watching Phil.  He’d thought he’d known all of Phil’s expressions, but the one Phil was trying so hard to hide right now was almost heartbreakingly wistful.  “That wasn’t what I meant,” he said, pushing away from the wall.

“Oh?” Phil said, his face his usual mask of calm, but his eyes still full of everything he was trying so hard not to feel.

The emotions in Phil’s gaze made Clint’s breath catch in his throat.  Phil was eyeing him like Clint was a complicated puzzle Phil would never solve and Clint felt too small for his own skin, his palms itching to find an answer to the question hiding in Phil’s eyes.  A heavy tension crackled in the air between them and Clint’s mouth went dry.  He swallowed thickly, fighting the impulse to grab onto Phil as the world slid away again.

“Phil, there’s something I need to say,” he said roughly, barely hearing the words over the way his pulse was pounding in his ears.

Phil nodded but the tension in his shoulders gave away his own nerves.  Reaching out, Clint curled his fingers over the warm skin of Phil’s forearm again, determined not to let Phil escape anywhere, but Phil appeared as trapped by the growing tension as Clint was.

“Can I…?”   _Phil, can I kiss you?_  The words seemed stuck in Clint’s throat, unable to come out.

“Can you what?” Phil whispered, his whole body tense with the effort it took to hold himself still.

For a second, Phil felt like he was falling, or maybe the ground was finally rising up to swallow him.  He couldn’t tell anymore.  “Fuck it,” Clint muttered and with a soft tug, he pulled Phil in so that he was crowding into Phil’s personal space.

Phil swallowed and Clint noticed with a sort of surging hope that Phil couldn’t quite stop his eyes from flicking downwards to glance at Clint’s lips.  Clint was caught as much as Phil was, the coiling, magnetic tension drawing him in ever closer.  Sparks of _need_ flickered under his skin and he could feel Phil’s warm breath again as he leaned in.  Clint knew his grip on Phil’s forearm was tight enough to leave a mark, but his lips were tentative as they brushed against Phil’s.  The sparks flared bright at the gentle touch and Clint gasped raggedly, letting go of Phil’s arm to slide his hand around Phil’s waist, hauling Phil even closer.  With their chests were pressed tightly together, Clint could feel the way Phil’s heart was pounding.

Dipping his head, Clint brushed his lips with Phil’s for a second time, his gaze still locked on Phil’s wide blue eyes.  Phil’s hand moved to settle on Clint’s neck, his mouth opening under Clint’s and Clint finally let his eyes flicker shut on a low moan.  He fisted his hands in Phil’s sweater, crowding even closer as the kiss turned hot and fierce until Clint head was swimming with it.  He didn’t want to stop.  Ever.  What he did want was _more_ \-- he wanted _everything_ Phil was willing to give -- until Phil was so tangled up in Clint’s life and Clint’s heart that he’d be there forever.

“ _Clint_ ,” Phil said with a groan, pulling back even as Clint slid his hands down to palm Phil’s ass.

It took Clint a moment to come back to his senses enough to loosen his grip a little, still trying to catch the breath Phil had stolen right out of his lungs.  When Phil opened his mouth, Clint pressed his fingers softly to Phil’s slightly swollen lips, stopping the questions.  “I’m sorry, Phil,” he whispered, sliding his thumb along Phil’s cheekbone.

Phil’s expression froze at Clint’s words, but Clint caught Phil’s face before he could turn away.  “No, please Phil, just listen,” he said fiercely, because as much as he would like to give in to the heat simmering between them and bend forward and catch those lips again for another taste, Clint _needed_ to say this first.  Taking a deep breath, Clint forced himself to voice the words, consequences be damned.  “I’m _sorry_.  I should have said something a long time ago, but I was so fucking _terrified_.  You’re one of the best things in my life.  I didn’t want to lose you by fucking things up -- because I was convinced I would.  It took me a really long time to stop being scared of that, but I’m not scared anymore.”  Clint took another deep breath.  “I love you,” he said, “and if you let me, I will spend a very long time showing you exactly how much.”

“You love me?” Phil echoed, his entire body going impossibly still.

His heart hitching in his chest, what Clint saw shining in Phil’s blue eyes hit him with the force of a sledgehammer -- because there was no mistaking that emotion for anything other than _love_.  Clint let out a shaky breath.  “Yeah,” he replied with the ghost of a smile.  “I love you, Phil.  So much it fucking _hurts_.”

“Oh,” Phil said, stunned.

Happiness bursting through him, Clint decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life trying to render Phil speechless like that.  “ _Oh_ ,” Phil repeated again with feeling.

“I’m kind of really hoping right now that you feel the same,” Clint whispered, wondering if it was possible for his heart to explode.  It felt like it wanted to.

In a fluid movement, Phil surged forwards and crashed his lips against Clint’s in a hard, urgent, almost brutal kiss.  “ _Of course_ I do,” Phil growled when they broke apart, chests heaving.  “I’ve loved you for _years_.  I don’t understand how you didn’t know that already…”

Taking advantage of the moment, Clint slanted his mouth over Phil’s again, tightening his arms around Phil.  His head swam with an almost narcotic feeling of relief, love bursting through him like a lightening storm.  Phil _loved_ him.

“ _Clint_ ,” Phil moaned against his mouth, his lips parting and it felt perfect.  How had Clint not done this _sooner_?

They broke apart when the need to breathe became important again and Clint leaned forward to touch his forehead to Phil’s.  “Fuck, I should have just ignored the fear and kissed you years ago,” he muttered.

Phil laughed softly and Clint wondered how he’d gotten so impossibly lucky to have fallen in love with this man and have Phil love him back.  “Maybe we both should have,” Phil said.

Clint smirked.  “We can always make up for it now,” he quipped.

“We could,” Phil agreed, a soft smile curving his mouth.  “Or we can try sitting at the table like civilised adults and you can have your favourite scones still warm from the oven.”

The thought almost made Clint moan.  “Yeah?” he said, unable to stop his grin because he _loved_ Phil, he didn’t doubt that, but those scones were pretty fucking spectacular.

“They were my mother’s recipe,” Phil said softly.  “She called them her Lucky Scones.”

“They’re definitely lucky,” Clint agreed, waggling his eyebrows.

Phil arched an eyebrow in reply, but the effect was spoiled by the pink blush stealing across his cheeks.  Clint was struck by the urge to push him up against the fridge and find out how far it went down.  Shooting him an exasperated look, as if he knew just what Clint was thinking, Phil slid two scones onto a plate and held them out to Clint.  “Have you eaten dinner yet?” Phil asked.

Humming distractedly, Clint picked up one of the scones and tried to resist shoving half of it in his mouth at once.  The taste of warm, fluffy scone and rich dark chocolate exploded in his mouth and Clint moaned happily, his eyes sliding shut.  Somehow, the warmth made everything _even better_ and it took a very long moment for Clint to stop concentrating on the deliciousness in his mouth and realise Phil was saying his name.

Possibly more than once.

“Yeah?” he asked, blinking open his eyes to find Phil leaning back against the kitchen counter and watching him with a fond smile.

“You really like my mother’s scones, don’t you?” Phil said.

Clint blinked and then hugged the plate with its remaining scone to his chest.  “Are you kidding?” he replied.  “These are _the best things I have ever tasted_.  Seriously.  Just ask Natasha.  I once promised her unspeakable things for these scones.”

Phil laughed, sliding a hand over his face.  Mentally, Clint backtracked over his last words, but they didn’t seem any worse than some of the other things he’d said in his life.  “Too much information?” he asked.

“No,” Phil answered and when he looked over at Clint again, he was still smiling, soft and warm and happy.  “I’m just realising how exactly the two of you got into so much trouble in Budapest.”

“For the record,” Clint stated, before moaning around another bite of _fluffy awesomeness_.  “Those scones were so inferior compared to yours that to even call them scones is an insult to the heaven that is in my mouth right now.”

Phil laughed helplessly again and shook his head.  “That didn’t mean you had to burn down the bakery, Clint.”

Clint shrugged.  “I kind of did,” he said.  “It was a bakery of evil.”  Shoving the last of the scone in his mouth, Clint sighed happily and sauntered over to Phil, unabashedly crowding the other man back against the counter.  “You still love me though, right?”

Sliding an arm around Clint’s waist, Phil let Clint settle between against him, before reaching up to trace his fingers along Clint’s jaw.  “Always,” Phil said and Clint couldn’t stop the way his breath hitched at the utter _certainty_ in Phil’s voice.  “Always,” Phil repeated again, this time with the hint of a smile, before he dipped his head for a kiss.

~*~

The Mysterious Baking Fairy was a SHIELD institution.

Rumour had it that when an agent finally reached level seven clearance, they got let in on the secret.  Junior agents still whispered about the MBF in hushed tones, but now when the fairy was mentioned, some of the senior agents just smiled mysteriously and changed the subject.  Speculation still persisted, but no one quite believed the MBF was Fury anymore, particularly since Jasper Sitwell had abruptly shut down his betting pool without mentioning the reason to anyone who was talking.

All the same, three conclusive things are still known about the MBF.  First, the fairy left the _most delicious_ baked goodies anyone had ever tasted.  Secondly, if anyone touched the chocolate chip scones before Clint Barton got to them, there would be several painfully placed nerf arrows in their future.

And thirdly, there was absolutely _no way_ Phil Coulson baked.

 

Fin.


End file.
